


Architecture in Wool and Silk

by Woldy



Category: Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F, Fashion & Couture, Secret Admirer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-11
Updated: 2011-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-27 05:30:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woldy/pseuds/Woldy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One luxuriant gift could be put down to good fortune, but two required an explanation. After the third, Andy figured it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Architecture in Wool and Silk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kivitaskula](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=kivitaskula).



> This story was written for kivitaskula for Help Brazil. I'm so sorry that the story is horrendously late, but I really hope you like it! Many thanks to gabe12347 for betaing :-)

It took two weeks for Andy to miss her job at _Runway._

Okay, that wasn't strictly true. Andy loved her job at the _New York Mirror_ and wouldn't have returned to work for Miranda for double the salary and half the hours. What she missed about Runway was access to the closet, and her pang of regret coincided exactly with the first time she walked past Saks on Fifth Avenue.

At least Andy _tried_ to walk past. She intended to glance airily at the window and keep on walking, her body language suggesting that fashion was something she'd outgrown, so it was a shock to find herself frozen in front of the glass.

Rationally, the window display was just an advertisement designed to lure impressionable young women into spending money they didn't have on things they didn't need. The analytical part of Andy's brain knew that most luxury goods were made in Asia now, and that more of the undoubtedly wince-inducing price tag went to the shareholders than to the workers. Irrationally, though, the shoes were _beautiful_.

 _I fucked Nate for three years,_ Andy thought, gazing at the shoes, _and I never wanted him this much._

It was something about the juxtaposition of the Mary Jane shape and the python skin -- classic yet trendy. It was the curve of the sole and the taper of the heel, which was almost but not quite too high. It was lust at first sight.

Andy stared, and stared, imagining how the shoes would look with everything in her wardrobe.

"Hey, lady, stop blocking the sidewalk!" someone complained, bumping Andy's shoulder. Andy almost dropped the bag containing her laptop, caught her balance with a hand hastily thrust against the glass, and the spell was broken.

 _I can't afford it,_ she told herself sternly, pulling her bag back onto her shoulder. _They're not even practical to walk in. People won't believe that I'm a serious journalist if I still dress like a clacker._

She took one final, regretful look at the shoes and then walked away.

Unfortunately, the Blahniks were as difficult to forget as Miranda was. Without those shoes, Andy's clothes looked dull and plebeian and she found herself wavering in front of the mirror each morning. In her mind's eye, Miranda's lips pursed and her eyes flicked pointedly down to Andy's feet.

Over the next week, it was far too easy for Andy to invent excuses to walk along Fifth Avenue. The first time she returned the python shoes were still in the window, and she allowed herself to linger for ten seconds -- counted precisely under her breath -- before moving on.

"Is seven hundred dollars too much to spend on a pair of shoes?" Andy asked Lily at brunch on Sunday.

Lily almost spat her coffee across the table. "Are you kidding me? On your salary, seven hundred dollars is too much to spend on anything you can't drive or live in."

The second time Andy returned to Saks she found a new display in the window and had a brief but violent internal struggle before going inside.

It shouldn't have been so easy to find a specific pair of shoes in a store that size, but Andy had barely stepped through the door when she glimpsed the python Blahniks in the distance. The surge of desire she felt at the sight of them was almost magnetic, and Andy found herself moving towards them faster than was entirely dignified.

"Can I help you?" asked the sales assistant in the shoe department, looking up from her desk.

"No," Andy said quickly, dragging her eyes away from the Blahniks. "I can't afford them. I'm just looking."

The saleswoman smiled. "You'd be amazed how many shoes we sell to women who are just looking. We offer a Saks credit card. I'll get you an application form."

Andy paused for a moment, letting herself imagine how it would feel to slip those shoes on in the morning, and then her mom's voice rang out in her head: _"You need to start paying back your student loans, Andy. Sooner or later, everyone has to grow up."_

"I can't," Andy said. "I'm being silly. Sorry to waste your time."

She left the store as fast as possible, eyes glued to the floor, to prevent herself from encountering any more temptation.

Two days later, Andy was woken at five a.m. by someone leaning on her buzzer. She groped around in panic for a moment, almost fell out of bed, and stumbled over to pick up the receiver.

"Mmeurgh," she said, and then on the second attempt, "Hello?"

"Delivery for Andy Sachs," said a brisk voice.

"I'm not expecting anything," Andy replied stupidly. "What's--"

"I need a signature."

"I'll, er, buzz you up," Andy said, simultaneously pressing the button and grabbing a pair of sweatpants.

She barely had time to pull on the sweatpants before there was a firm knock on the door, and she opened it on the chain -- who wouldn't be cautious at five am? -- revealing a man in a courier's uniform.

"Do you usually deliver this early?" Andy said, scrawling her name on the electronic clipboard he handed her.

"Here's your package, Miss Sachs," he said, ignoring her question. He placed a box in front of her door, then turned and went back down the stairs.

Once the door to the street had clunked shut behind him, Andrea took the chain off of her door and pulled the package inside. The box was an understated shade of grey, unlike an ordinary courier parcel, and when Andy turned it over she found the words _Manolo Blahnik_ embossed on the side.

Andy's breath caught in her throat. She pulled aside the tape on the box and carefully lifted the lid to reveal the python shoes nestled in a sea of tissue paper.

The shriek Andy let out probably woke everyone in the building, but she couldn't bring herself to care. _It was the python shoes. Now her python shoes!_

She grabbed the shoes, ran over to the mirror, carefully stepped into them, and the fact that she was wearing sweatpants and one of her dad's old t-shirts didn't even matter -- the Blahniks were perfect. They were elegant, classic yet trendy, absolutely her style, and they cost seven hundred dollars. Who on earth would send her _seven hundred dollar shoes?_

Andy stared at her reflection as her brain whirled.

 _It can't have been Lily -- she doesn’t have that kind of money to spare, she thinks fashion is stupid, and she still hasn't forgiven me for what happened with Nate. I haven't told anybody else, so unless there's some kind of Runway spy network…_

Andy thought back to the weird messages from shop assistants that she had sometimes taken at _Runway_. At the time the calls seemed stupid, just gossip from sales girls that Miranda would never call back, but now it suddenly made sense. Those shop assistants were an informal _Runway_ spy network. Who bought what was news in the fashion industry, and someone at Runway had used that information to send Andy the gift of her dreams.

She twirled absentmindedly, admiring the way the shoes made her calves look slimmer, and thought… _Emily._

Emily answered Miranda's phone, so she heard all the gossip first. Emily also knew Andy's shoe size, because Miranda had tasked her with the provision of acceptable footwear during Andy's disastrous first week. Since Andy gave her almost all the clothes from Paris, Emily also owed her a favor. It _must_ have been Emily.

It was still too early to call anyone, especially to say thank you, so Andy spent the next ninety minutes matching outfits with her new shoes, eventually picking the simplest to wear today: a cream shirtdress in heavy silk that had been retired from the closet.

"It's meant to be over-sized, but it'll do," Nigel had said pointedly, back in the days before their banter had grown friendly.

Miranda's expression had indicated approval of the shirtdress when Andy wore it at _Runway_ , but the python Blahniks elevated the dress from everyday to elegant. Andy took a moment to imagine Miranda's reaction to what she was wearing: a tiny lift at the side of her mouth, a momentary softening of her eyes, perhaps even a minute nod. Even by Miranda's exacting standards, this outfit was a success.

No doubt Emily would consider this combination boring, but then Emily's favorite outfits, with their studs and big shoulder pads, weren't exactly Andy's style. _To each to their own,_ Andy thought, taking a final glance in the mirror and smiling at what she saw.

Navigating the stairs from her flat provided a blunt reminder of how hard it was to walk in four-inch heels. Midway down Andy wavered, torn between going back for some flat shoes so she could walk to the subway or calling a cab, and then pulled out her cellphone. She was never going to receive an incredible gift like this again, so she'd better make the most of it.

In the cab, Andy punched the number for Miranda's office into her phone -- even now, it was one of the three numbers she knew by heart.

"Hey Emily," she said when Emily picked up. "Thanks for the present. I love them."

" _What_ are you talking about, Andrea?" Emily asked, drawing out the vowels. It was her typical tone: 50% contemptuous, 30% businesslike, but Andy thought the remaining 20% had slowly turned from loathing to affection.

"The shoes are beautiful. Thank you so much."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Emily replied, and although this was the reply Andy expected, the tone was wrong.

"The python Blahniks you sent me," Andy said, and heard Emily splutter.  
 _  
"What did you say?"_

"Somebody sent me a pair of python Blahniks. They arrived this morning."

There was a long silence.

"Emily?"

"If I was going to buy Blahniks for anyone, Andrea," Emily said, in a tone that suggested she was addressing a small child or an idiot, "it would be me. What are you even going to wear them with?"

"I have a few ideas," Andy said, and heard Emily's huff.

"Well, I'll _lend_ you the Helmut Lang leather trousers from Paris," Emily announced, in a tone that didn't brook any opposition. "So you'll have at least half an outfit worthy of them."

"Thanks, Emily," she said, smiling at the thought of Emily's expression, and there was a click as Emily hung up.

* * * * *

The next time Andy was on Fifth Avenue she ducked into Saks to thank the sales assistant. Whoever it was that the sales girl told - perhaps Nigel, but when Andy called him to ask she got his voicemail and he never called back - was responsible for getting Andy a pair of seven hundred dollar shoes. More importantly, they were the most beautiful shoes she'd seen in her life, and every time Andy glimpsed them in her closet they brought a smile to her face.

Andy stalked around the Saks shoe department for ten minutes, but evidently the sales assistant from her last visit wasn't there. She briefly debated leaving a message, realized that she had no idea what the girl was called or how to describe her, and gave it up as a lost cause.

On the way from the shoe department to the door, she saw the jacket. There, hanging amidst a whole display of color-block clothes in look-at-me shades, was a jacket made beautiful by its understatement.

It was like her first glimpse of the shoes all over again -- a sight that ambushed her rational brain and left her almost dizzy. The jacket was dark grey and elegantly cut, in a visibly expensive fabric. Andy was almost certain that Miranda would have watched an identical jacket pass on a catwalk.

 _You can't afford it,_ Andy told herself, but the weak-willed part of her replied, _How do you know, if you haven't even looked at it? Try it on first, then look at the label._

Fixing her eyes on the sleeve to stop herself seeing the price tag, Andy removed the jacket from the hanger and slid it on. It was incredibly soft, instantly comfortable, and Andy couldn't resist looking around for a mirror.

"That looks great on you," someone nearby said, with envy plain in her voice.

"Thanks," Andy replied, with a sinking heart because, even if she wasn't in Saks where everything was expensive, tailoring like this didn't come cheap.

She spotted a mirror, headed towards it, and the reflection that greeted her was just as bad as she feared - the jacket looked beautiful. It suited her even better than the navy blazer from the Runway wardrobe, and it was far more versatile.

This was a jacket Andy could wear to work, or with jeans, or over a dress on a summer evening. With her python shoes and the Helmut Lang leather trousers from Emily (the attached note had read "Wear them! I'm not giving them up lightly"), this jacket would make the kind of outfit Miranda herself might wear.

 _Damn,_ Andy thought, but after years of her mother's lectures about vulgarity and good manners the word that came out was "Shoot!"

Reluctantly, Andy took off the jacket and examined the label. She glimpsed the words _Stella McCartney_ and _cashmere_ with a sinking feeling, and then saw the tag - $1700 dollars. It was so far out of her price range that Andy couldn't even begin to consider it.

Andy put the jacket back on the hanger, and hung it on the nearest rack.

"Surely you're not leaving that?" the envious woman said. "If something looked that good on me I'd never take it off."

"It's a little beyond my budget," said Andy, and she was speaking as much to herself as to the woman when she continued, "It's not meant to be."

She walked away, vowing that she was going to avoid temptation by staying away from Saks.

On Saturday morning, Andy was startled awake by her buzzer at an ungodly hour. This time, she was upright and holding the intercom receiver within seconds.

"Hello?"

"Delivery for Andy Sachs," the voice said calmly.

"Buzzing you right up!" said Andy, as the hope welled up inside her.

 _It can't be,_ warned her inner pessimist, while a larger part of her screamed, _It's the jacket! Someone's sent you the jacket!_

There was a knock on her door, and Andy flung it open, excitement outweighing any embarrassment about greeting a stranger while wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt and panties.

"Here you are, Miss Sachs," he said, passing her the electronic clipboard, and Andy saw that he was holding a suit carrier with Saks emblazoned on the side. "Sign here, please."

"Who's it from?" Andy asked, scrawling her name.

"I'm afraid I can't divulge that information," said the courier, checking her signature and passing her the suit carrier. "Good day."

"Wait a minute!" Andy called, as he turned towards her stairs. "Surely you can tell me who sent it?"

There was no reply, and a few seconds later she heard the front door swing closed. Andy shut her door, unzipped the suit carrier, and as she expected, the jacket was hanging inside.

One luxuriant gift could be put down to good fortune, but two required an explanation. Andy laid the jacket on her bed and stared at it. _Who would send me this? Who can even afford this?_

Emily had made it plain that any affection she felt for Andy didn't extend to expensive gifts. Andy still wasn't speaking to Nate, which meant no presents from him or from Lily any time soon. While her parents approved of work-wear, hell would freeze over before they considered spending nearly two thousand dollars on any item of clothing. The only person Emily could think of who took fashion seriously and actually liked her was Nigel.

Andy waited until lunchtime before calling him.

"Hi Nigel," she said cheerily when he picked up.

"Six," he replied, in the familiar teasing tone. "You'd better not be asking me to beg for your job back."

"Nothing like that," Andy assured him. "I'm calling to see if you know anything about a pair of python Blahniks and a Stella McCartney jacket."

"I'm having a flashback from our last editorial meeting," Nigel said dryly. "What are we doing for accessories?"

"Someone sent me the shoes and jacket," clarified Andy, and there was silence on the other end of the line. "Nigel?"

"If you're looking for clues about where they came from then I can't help," he said, voice unusually serious. "The two jackets McCartney sent us are still in the closet, and we didn't have any python Blahniks. I know the ones you mean, though, and they'll suit you."

"They suit me perfectly," Andy agreed. "Not many people know my style that well, so I thought that maybe you--"

"Sorry to tell you this, Six," interrupted Nigel, "but I don't like you quite that much."

"I can't think of anyone else it might have been."

There was a soft, amused sound at the other end of the line.

"I'm sure you'll figure it out," Nigel said, and then hung up.

* * * * *

Andy half-expected the pleasure of wearing the Blahniks or her McCartney jacket to fade over time, but it didn't. Over the next fortnight she wore the jacket four times and the python shoes twice, and felt a thrill each time she put them on.

It wasn't just that the jacket was incredibly soft and fitted her exquisitely, although it did. It wasn't just that the shoes were chic and sexy, although undoubtedly they were. Andy enjoyed the admiring looks and comments that she received about them, but that wasn't the point either. Her enjoyment of the gifts was both simpler and deeper: a love of the artistry, craftsmanship, and the way they seemed to reflect something about her life.

"Fashion is about the zeitgeist," Emily had told her once, nose in the air, which was clearly true but not what Andy meant. The closest thing to expressing her feeling was a remark of Miranda's that Andy had overheard once: "Style can't be quantified."

At some point during her time at Runway Andy had developed style, or at least learned to recognize it.

"Oh god, tell me you didn't!" Lily said, when Andy walked in for brunch. "Those are the shoes you told me about, right? The _seven hundred dollar_ shoes?"

"Actually, I didn't," said Andy, taking a seat.

"Show me!" Doug demanded, and Andy extended one leg towards him. "Gorgeous," he declared.

"What do you mean 'you didn't'? Then where did they come from?" Lily pursued.

"DHL," said Andy, picking up a menu. "They were a gift."

"From who?"

"No idea," she said, glancing down the menu. "Do you think they make their own hash browns here, or should I order the home fries?"

"Andy," Lily insisted, pushing down Andy's menu and staring at her. "You're wearing seven hundred dollar shoes and you don't know where they came from? Were they stolen?"

"They came in the box and a store bag, so I don't think so," Andy said. After a moment of internal debate, she added, "And they sent me a jacket."

"Did that cost a fortune, too?" asked Lily, her pitch rising.

Andy nodded, biting her lip.

"You have a secret admirer!" Doug proclaimed.

"No," Andy said, trying to quell his enthusiasm. "I'm sure it's just... Just someone returning a favor, or-"

"If you've been doing favors like that for people then you're buying brunch," Lily announced, leaning back in her chair. "You really don't know who they're from?"

Andy shook her head. "I thought it might be one of my coworkers, but they both denied it."

"Isn't it creepy wearing something from an unknown person?" Lily asked, signaling for the waiter to refill her coffee mug. "What if it's some kind of crazy stalker?"

"They came by courier and still have tags on, so whoever bought them probably never even touched them," said Andy. "I asked the DHL guy, but he won't say who sent them."

"It's like the plot from a romance novel!" Doug said theatrically. "Next thing you know they'll show up with the horse and carriage from Central Park and sweep you off your feet."

"Y'know, I have loyal clients who buy a lot of paintings, but I've never heard of personal gifts like that," Lily said, taking a sip of coffee.

"No, it's..." Andy paused, trying to find the words. "I'm sure it won't happen again."

"I'm amazed it happened once. All the details, from the beginning," Lily demanded.

Over coffee, eggs and excellent hash browns, Andy told them all about it.

* * * * *

Andy stuck to her resolution of avoiding Saks, but two weeks later she was awoken by her buzzer again. This time, Andy buzzed the courier in without even lifting the intercom receiver and hurried over to the door.

"Delivery for Andy Sachs," the courier said, as Andy grabbed the electronic clipboard and scrawled her name.

"Can you tell me who it's from this time?" she asked, as he handed her a large box.

"Confidential," the courier said curtly. "Have a nice day."

Andy closed the door and almost tore the box in her haste to open it. There were thick layers of pink tissue paper inside, which she pulled away to reveal a crisp white shirt.

The shirt was...nice. Andy took it out of the box and held it up to the light, examining the cut and quality. It was tasteful, fitted, quietly expensive, the kind of shirt she could wear to work almost every day. _It's boring,_ Andy thought, with a sense of disappointment, and then felt guilty for the ingratitude.

She had no right to expect anything, but she'd still expected something better. Somehow, she'd started to believe that her mystery admirer knew exactly what suited her and could guess precisely she wanted. It was stupid, but for a few weeks Andy had imagined that there was someone - a rich, beneficent someone - who knew her better than she knew herself.

Andy's eyes drifted back to the box, and then she realized that the layers of tissue paper beneath the shirt were concealing something else. She slid her hand down the side of the box and her questing fingers brushed silk.

Carefully, she pushed aside the layers of tissue paper and beneath them was a gleaming ivory-colored shape. Andy a moment to recognize what it was, and then the realization took her breath away. A corset.

Andy ran her fingers over it, feeling the boning concealed by a thick luxurious silk that reminded her of double cream. She lifted the corset out of the box, walked over to the mirror, and held it up to her torso. It was amazing how well the shape of the corset fit around her body -- as if it had been made for her.

She glanced down at the box, and saw a discrete card with the words _Rigby and Peller_ written there. So it had been made for her, and by the Queen of England's corsetier. Andrea had only ever met one person who might buy underwear like that.

"Give that girl a waistline," she remembered Miranda snarling at a quivering model on one of the _Runway_ editorial shoots. "Fashion isn't just fabric, it's architecture."

"Yes, Miranda!" the fashion editor had said, scurrying away. The editor had returned five minutes later with a Jean Paul Gauthier bodice, and the twitch of Miranda's lips had indicated that it would suffice.

 _Miranda. These gifts had come from Miranda._

For a moment the world seemed to tilt, and Andy reached out to steady herself against the mirror. Part of her had always known that only someone like Miranda could easily afford these gifts, but it hadn't made sense -- a boss didn't give their employee presents like this, let alone an ex-employee.

Andy rubbed her finger over the silk of the corset, and thought, _These aren't the sort of gifts you get from a boss. They're gifts from a lover.  
_  
Years later, Andy will look back and wonder how she was so calm in that moment. Surely there should have been soul-searching, or discussions with friends, some effort to figure out what being bisexual meant.

Instead, Andy just reached for her cellphone and punched in the third number she knew from memory: Miranda's private cellphone. The number that Miranda didn't give to anyone who she wasn't employing, or fucking.

"Hello, Miranda," she said, the instant the phone connected, because if she didn't say this right away she might lose her nerve. "I love the corset, but I don't think I can get into it by myself. You'll have to help."

For a heartbeat, there was silence on the other end of the line.

Then, in the frostiest tone she'd ever heard, Miranda said, "I _beg_ your pardon, Andrea."

"I know it was you," Andy replied, gripping the cellphone hard in a hand that was suddenly clammy. "Architecture."

"This is completely inappropriate," snapped Miranda, but Andy heard her breathlessness, and it was all the confirmation she needed.

"It doesn't have to be," she said. "I don't work for you any more. I don't _want_ to work for you. But I want... I mean I'd like us to..."

"Do you have any idea what you're asking?"

"Not really," Andy admitted, and felt laughter welling up inside her. "Where are you?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Because I'm coming over. I'm bringing the corset, the shirt, the jacket, and the shoes. I want you to style me in person."

"What if I'm in Milan?" Miranda asked, prickly as always, and Andy laughed out loud at how difficult she was, even when she was getting exactly what she wanted.

"Then I'll get on a flight. Just tell me where you are."

For a couple of seconds Miranda was silent. Then she admitted, "I'm at home."

"And the twins?"

"Are with their father," Miranda said, and the combination of Miranda's calm, precise tone and the fact that she _planned for the house to be empty before sending the corset_ left Andy weak at the knees.

"I'll be there in ten minutes."

Andy dialed the cab immediately, and it was waiting at the door by the time she had tossed the corset, shirt, jacket and shoes into a bag, and then hurriedly pulled on some clothes. It took almost twenty minutes for her to reach Miranda's townhouse, but the door swung open before she had time to knock.

"You're late," Miranda announced, and then, "What are you wearing?"

"Sweatpants and sneakers," Andy said, meeting her eyes. "That's how I dress over the weekend. Wanna change your mind?"

"You certainly need to be taken in hand," Miranda replied, grey eyes narrowing, and her tone sent shivers down Andy's spine. "I can't do that on the doorstep."

Andy stepped inside, unbuttoning her coat, and felt the weight of Miranda's gaze as it revealed her old t-shirt, stretched loose with age and hanging from one shoulder.

"You are deliberately provocative," said Miranda, her eyes fixed on Andy's bare collarbone.

"Says the woman who sent me a corset," Andy responded, and Miranda's head snapped up. "Are you going to help me put it on or not?"

Miranda stepped closer, her shoes clicking on the expensive wooden floor. She reached out and caught Andy's chin with one finger.

"I don't play games," Miranda said quietly. "Relationships matter to me. It won't be like the office. We'll have to--"

"Show me, then," Andy suggested, leaning in, and Miranda kissed her.

Miranda's lips were soft and tasted of lipstick, parting as Miranda's tongue slid into her mouth, and Andy heard herself whimper.

The kiss was like nothing Andy had ever imagined - soft, heady, and addictively good. Miranda's cheek was smooth, and the warm swell of her breasts pressed against Andy's own. Andy realized her hand was fisting Miranda's shirt an instant before Miranda pulled away and said, "There's no need to maul my blouse, Andrea."

"Perhaps you should take it off?" Andy suggested.

Miranda raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure you're ready for that?"

"Well, no, not certain," Andy admitted. "But I think I'm-"

"Then I'll wait until you're certain," Miranda said, her thumb tracing a line up Andy's neck - always one of her big erogenous zones - and setting her nerves tingling.

"Are you teasing me?"

"Andrea," Miranda said, giving her That Look over her glasses. "You should know by now that I like things to be perfect."

Miranda's hand traced around the back of Andy's neck, dipping down to touch her collarbone, and Andy let out a little gasp.

"You're usually in a hurry," said Andy, slightly breathless.

"Coffee and cars should be fast, but couture takes time," Miranda replied, as her hand slid inside the neckline of Andy's t-shirt. "This, of course, will have to come off."

"Yes, Miranda," Andy gasped, and Miranda smiled at her, looking for a moment just like the cat that got the cream.

"I look forward to hearing all the different ways you'll moan that," Miranda murmured. "Bring me the corset, Andrea."

It was a good thing that Miranda's townhouse was so big, because there was no shortage of mirrors to peek at, sturdy furniture to grasp, soft rugs and expensive bed sheets to fuck on, and the neighbours were a long way away. If Andy had screamed Miranda's name like that in her own apartment someone would have called the police.

* * * * *

Over the course of her career Miranda had supervised hundreds of photo shoots, but her very favorite images never graced the pages of _Runway._ Her favorites lived in a leather bound album in her dresser and had never been seen by anyone except herself and Andrea.

Those pictures didn't involve a size zero model, or a professional photographer, or a carefully calculated arrangement of designers and colors. They featured combinations of four items of clothing: a white shirt, a pair of shoes, a grey jacket, and a corset, but the clothes weren't really the point.

When Miranda captured these images she wasn't thinking about advertising revenue, or the way the light caught fabric - she was thinking about the curve of Andrea’s lips, the swell of her breasts beneath the corset, and the hint of pink nipple through white cotton. Looking at them now, a warm flush of desire ran through Miranda's body at the recollection of how Andrea felt, looked, sounded, and tasted all those years ago.

As a foreign correspondent for the New York Times, Andrea had been in Syria for ten days. Patience was still not Miranda's virtue, and she reached for her cellphone to punch the first number on her speed-dial.

"Andrea," she said, as the line connected. "I was just thinking about you..."


End file.
